Page 57 of Fall is Brewing

Brooks goes very still beside me.

The woman grins. “That sounds like me.”

“It starts warm,” I continue, surprising myself as I lean into it. “A little baked apple, a little caramel at the edges. But it doesn’t collapse into sugar. There’s enough acid underneath to keep it bright.”

The husband takes a sip and nods. “That’s really good.”

“It would pair well with sharp cheddar,” I say, then add before I can stop myself, “Or pork tenderloin with mustard glaze.”

I can feel Brooks’ eyes on me, but I don’t look back.

The woman immediately reaches for a bottle. “We’ll take one.”

“And the coffee,” her husband adds, picking up a bag of Apple Cinnamon Crisp from the display. “She smelled this earlier and made a noise I’ve only heard when our dog gets our leftover french fries.”

I smile. “That’s because it’s unfairly good.”

Brooks lets out a quiet laugh beside me. The sound is low and warm and settles somewhere beneath my ribs before I can stop it.

After they check out and wander toward the patio, Brooks turns to me. “Unfairly good?”

“I stand by the statement.”

“You sold two bottles and coffee.”

“I’m aware.”

“That was impressive.”

I pick up a clean glass and polish it with more intensity than necessary. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked.”

“You’re making your impressed face.”

He tilts his head. “I have an impressed face?”

“Unfortunately.”

He leans closer, dropping his voice so only I can hear. “What does it look like?”

I should not answer that.

I absolutely should not answer that while he is standing close enough that the sleeve of his shirt brushes my arm, while his mouth is curved like he already knows he’s gotten under my skin, while the whole room smells like cinnamon coffee and cider and sunlight-warmed wood.

But apparently I am not currently making wise decisions.

“It looks smug,” I say.

He laughs softly. “I’ve been told that’s just my face.”

“Hm. Tragic.”

“Tragic? Ouch. That’s a new one. My face has been called a lot of things before, but tragic isn’t one of them.”

I shrug, nonchalant. “I’m a maverick.”

“Yes, you are.” His eyes hold mine, and the joke thins into something else. The air between us tightens, not with argument this time, but with awareness.